


Book Two: A Dangerous Strategy

by Devilbaby



Series: Werewolves of London: On the Presence of Supernatural Beings in Victorian England [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Holmes and Watson are soulmates, Holmes whump, Hurt/Comfort, Lestrade is just trying to do his job, M/M, Moriarty is a bastard, Vampire AU, these boys are going to need so many hugs (hopefully from each other)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28191921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilbaby/pseuds/Devilbaby
Summary: "“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly,‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,And I have many curious things to show when you are there.” - The Spider and the FlyAs an ancient evil threatens the city of London, Holmes and Watson enact a desperate plan. But are things really as they seem, or have they just stepped into the spider's web?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Werewolves of London: On the Presence of Supernatural Beings in Victorian England [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065332
Comments: 33
Kudos: 21





	1. The Bastard Prince

**Author's Note:**

> so, due to the ridiculous length of our first draft, we decided to split this work into multiple 'books'. This is book 2 of 4. As always, remember to heed the trigger warnings in the chapter summaries.
> 
> trigger warnings: none.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: none

Chapter 1: The Bastard Prince  


  
  


_"What I have written to now -from first confronting Holmes in his rooms at Baker street to the Saint Cyprian investigation and our forging an unlikely friendship - my be considered no more than a lengthy introduction to the actual story, which I will attempt to document below. If I may be accused of a certain verbosity it taking so long to come to the central part of the narrative, I can only say in my defense that it was impossible to begin anywhere else, and that all the facts I have detailed are each wholly necessary to understanding everything that follows. It is a tale that began fantastically enough, and will continue to become moreso by the end. Without a keen understanding of how we came to be in such circumstances, very little of what we did, or the decisions we made (particularly regarding each other) will make any sense at all."_

  
  


The realization of the enormity of his error sat full upon Watson’s shoulders and he felt like Atlas, struggling beneath its weight. Good god, what had he done? His own perilous situation aside, Holmes was now neck deep in this business and currently unable to defend himself should danger come calling. And danger, it seemed, was forever calling on Sherlock Holmes. 

Point in fact, it appeared to have an open invitation. 

Watson pressed his lips together. "I admit this may be somewhat beyond what I am used to,” he acknowledged a bit unsteadily, “but my concern now is your protection. You are as endangered as myself; if I need to slip out of view, so do you."

“Pah,” Holmes retorted, acerbic curl in his voice, “this is _my_ city as well. Taken at your word, it is possibly one of the last truly free cities of man; certainly the most powerful. I will not let it fall into the hands of a conclave of parasitic blood drinkers without a fight." 

Watson frowned, because Holmes _couldn’t_ fight and that was the problem. As it was, he couldn’t even walk...and that was very much Watson’s fault. 

_You did this_ he thought as he stared at the broken line of Holmes’ body where it sagged in the chair, bandaged head to foot and a chemical concoction the only thing keeping agony at bay. Watson tried to refute it but all such attempts were futile. He had come to Holmes first to judge him, and then to ask for help, and despite the fact Holmes owed him nothing and had no real _reason_ to help him at all, he had. 

All he had asked for in return was honesty, and Watson had failed him there, too. 

And here they were, the consequences of his actions. 

“What good can you possibly do right now?” he heard himself ask, words sounding far more accusatory than he’d intended and he wasn’t certain which one of them he was talking to. 

“That remains to be seen,” Holmes replied, hard gleam in his eyes, "but one thing I will _not_ do is run." Holmes cast a shrewd look his direction and Watson felt transparent, all his secrets laid bare beneath Holmes' dissecting gaze. "I know you are considering asking it of me, doctor. You might as well not bother." 

Watson didn't deny it. "You are mortal," he retorted. "An exceptional one I grant, but still only human. This is not a game you can win, Holmes. If the sire truly means to take the city, it is doubtful he will come alone. How much of a chance do you truly think you have against a vampire clan?"

Holmes' shoulders twitched out a shrug. "I do not know. But there is little practical difference in having no chance and taking none."

"Holmes," Watson said firmly, arms over his chest like crossed swords. "The difference is your _life_. I am telling you now, if you take this chance you are not likely to survive it." He paused, swallowed and continued, "I-I consider you a friend. Please..." but the words refused to be spoken, shriveling to dust on his lips.

The look Holmes gave him sent a shiver down his spine; burrowed under his skin and stayed there. Holmes' whole face was alight with determination and Watson watched him unreservedly, the fire and passion that burned all through him. Holmes was vividly alive and Watson realized that he had been wrong. Holmes was _not_ reckless; he simply cared too damn much to take heed of his own welfare. "Let me make myself rightly understood: London is as much my city as it is yours. I have pledged my life to its defense, and I do not pledge myself lightly. It is now shadowed by a threat as great as any it has known. Where else should I be, if not here? I _will_ fight them, doctor, with or without you. Thus if you are concerned for my welfare, the sensible thing would be to let me assist you in your endeavors. Whatever my chances against such a foe, they will be exponentially increased with you by my side. Let us continue our partnership until the threat has passed."

Watson sighed, already defeated. That infernal _logic_ again, uttered with such conviction that all Watson's protests seemed mean and petty and hollow; he couldn't begin to compete. Holmes commanded the English language with such precision as to make the most preposterous of ideas seem reasonable. Besides, Watson could not stop him now if he tried, not without thralling him first and was something he would not do. 

But he could at least make him aware of the danger. "He has likely been planning this for some time. If so, we shall have a full-on war upon us." 

"He will certainly not risk confronting you without support," Holmes agreed. "I certainly wouldn't, in his place."

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Watson's mouth. "To my understanding, vampires prefer to attack each other in number. But I fear I am not so great an adversary as they believe. Against a vampire older than myself I doubt I stand much of a chance at all."

"Modesty is a terrible habit, Watson, you should divest yourself of it as soon as possible." 

Even the circumstances being what they were, he laughed. "It is not modesty, merely the truth. This fearsome countenance is but an act."

Holmes harrumphed at him, quarrelsome twist to his mouth. "Hardly. Otherwise you would not have been chosen. I wager there were a few older than yourself that you handily dispatched; you would not have gotten such a formidable reputation otherwise." Holmes' pinned him down with a glance, "And it is obvious you have one."

Watson blinked in surprise, denials already forming in his mind. "Do I?" he asked, and the look Holmes gave him made him feel rather stupid.

"Why else would the sire have stooped to espionage? You said yourself your kind prefers outright warfare when settling disputes among themselves, and you are the Prince of London, Watson, whether you intended it or not. You have held the city for fifty years by right of blood and conquest and your claim stands. But rather than issue a formal challenge, or attack the city directly this one lurks in the shadows, blackmailing priests to join his network of spies and sending out thralls to scour the streets in search of you."

"Are you implying they're afraid of me?" It seemed unlikely. He was no one, a clanless vampire without status or bloodline. He didn't even have thralls.

"I imply nothing; I say it plainly. You have them frightened, doctor, and they are being cautious. We can use that." 

"I had never given it much thought before," he admitted, slowly turning the idea over in his mind. It made a good deal of sense, now Holmes had pointed it out. He looked up and found the detective silently laughing at him, some dark amusement flitting it way through his eyes. "What is it?"

"I was reflecting on how much consternation you must be causing other vampires by your mere existence." 

Watson frowned again. "I doubt that was my own sire's intention."

"On the contrary, I should think that was her intention exactly."

Watson looked up, interested but not without reservations. For all his intelligence, he could not fathom how Holmes would presume to know the intricacies of a moment a hundred years in the past, nor the intentions of a vampire he knew nothing about. "How could you know that? No one could know that. I never knew her; I certainly could not guess at what her intentions might have been."

"What were you doing before you were shot?" Holmes asked idly, and Watson sensed a deeper meaning behind his words, some distant point at which he was driving, but he could not see it.

"My job," he said awkwardly. "I was kneeling down, trying to wrap a soldier's wound. I don't even remember who he was anymore. I do remember the sun was going down, and no one understood why we were still fighting. But neither side had called retreat yet." 

Holmes shook his head. "The correct answer is 'being observed'. Why did the creature that visited you choose you, specifically, and not the other men who lay dying around you? Is it perhaps because you were fighting to save lives rather than take them? We know only one thing about the one who sired you, and that is she shunned vampiric society as much as you do now."

"We cannot know that," Watson countered, but Holmes merely cracked his knuckles at him, small explosions like fireworks. 

"Can't we? Is it not the most reasonable explanation for what happened to you? You say vampires do not create others of their kind without reason. What reason did your sire have for creating you?"

"I- I don't know. Though I have often wondered."

"Let us examine the facts, then. You were a man at the end of your young life, dying on a battlefield far from home. No one would have blamed you for giving up, for turning your gun upon yourself and thus ending your misery, or trying to take one more enemy with you. That is the nature of war, Watson. Yet still, your final act was one of mercy. With your dying breath you fought to save the life of another. Just one more man, and if you still had the strength, one more after that."

Holmes moved closer, conspiratorial curve to his face. "She chose _you_ , Watson. Not the brave soldier who died beside you, not the Colonel shot off his horse. You, a man who’s last act was in defiance of death and suffering. She created you and left you to either die or survive by your own abilities. She told you nothing, and in so doing assured you would never owe your own kind anything at all; no favors and no gratitude, no debts to be collected unless you brought them upon yourself. And perhaps she had observed you long enough to know you would not indenture yourself to them."

Watson pondered all that. "I thought about the reasons I was chosen for many years," he admitted. "I thought it a curse at first; cursed to kill when I'd been a doctor in life. But eventually I learned how to let people live while getting what I needed, and I was able to set myself up as a doctor, and obtain blood without either thrall or murder. The question always remained, though." 

"A mother rabbit after giving birth immediately leaves the nest, visiting for only a few minutes a day thereafter to feed her young. This is to minimize the chance of the burrow being found by any predator who may be tracking her. It would seem cruel by human standards, but rabbits are not humans. Neither are vampires." 

"True, but it seems the usual practice is in fact to nurture their young rather than abandon them," he said wryly. 

"And how does that turn out for the vampires, from the perspective of human morality?" 

"I don't quite understand," Watson said. "I believe vampires properly tutored by their sires have a great wealth of knowledge I lack, and access to resources I have not." 

"Yes, yes, they would have knowledge and wealth, certainly. And they would be utterly indebted for it; bound to whichever sire and clan gave them such riches. Chained by whatever societal rules govern these creatures. Taught to play the Great Game, and woe should they refuse. From the perspective of a vampire which shunned such a society, you were given a great gift, though it came at a price to yourself." He leaned in, " _Freedom,_ Watson. Freedom from "Them", from their society, their games, their rules. Freedom even from your own sire. You will never feel indebted to one of them, their games mean nothing to you. You spit on their graves because you have never been given a reason to do otherwise. You never knew your sire, and thus your heart will never be moved by one of them suing for clemency in her name. She picked you out of a multitude of soldiers and killers and brave men following orders. And then she left you there to either live or die on your own. 

And you lived, and lived and lived. And when you met another vampire, you killed them." 

He sat back, stretched one long arm out wide to encompass the whole of the city. "And here you are, the rouge Prince of London. They cannot leverage your bloodline against you because they do not know whose child you are; not even you have that knowledge and I must admire your sire for that, at least. In telling you nothing she protected you both." 

Watson didn’t quite know what to feel, though there was certainly something filling his chest like air, making it both tight and light at the same time. A feeling that perhaps this cursed life wasn’t so cursed after all, that perhaps he should be doing something more with it, more than trying to hide himself away and pantomiming a mortal life, because he did not know how to be a vampire. 

Perhaps Holmes was right. Perhaps he never learned to be a proper vampire because he was never meant to be one. Not in the way they believed themselves to be. 

"Well then," he said, still struggling to define the feeling that had taken root inside him, "I suppose we should look to the city's defenses. You're the strategist, what do you propose?"


	2. A Bending of Wills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: none

Chapter 2: A Bending of Wills  


  
  


That was all the invitation Holmes needed and he was off, mind running swift down the whitewater torrents of his thoughts. "Firstly, you cannot stay here; certainly not during the day. It would only take a bottle of accelerant and a match to end you. Were I Newman’s master, this should be the first place I would come looking in search of you.”

"I will sleep elsewhere,” Watson assured him, "but I insist on being here at night. If the sire means to take London he will not come alone; his clan will likely be with him. You will be the most vulnerable at night."

A cogitative hum emanated from the back of his throat. "They may already be here. It has been several days since the affair at the church. The sire’s child and at least one of his thralls is dead, and he will know the corpse pulled from the ashes of your house was not your own. Our only advantage there is that they do not yet wish to reveal their presence in the city. Rather than show themselves, they will send thralls.”

“Thralls are still dangerous, Holmes.” Watson cautioned, “and in your present state there is little you can do to defend yourself.”

Holmes gave a careless shrug that made the corners of Watson's mouth crimp together in irritation. “A thrall is still mortal. I imagine a bullet will be effective enough of a deterrent.”

“Only if you kill them. A man under the command of a thrall will not stop. Not until he accomplishes his goal, or the thrall fades.”

“Then we shall hope for their sake that they keep their distance.”

"They won't need to get that close to kill you!" Watson snapped, at least understanding something of Mycroft's constant vexation with his brother. It was all well and good to know Holmes' cavalier attitude toward his own well-being was fueled by an almost preternatural desire for justice and a desperate need for mental stimulation. but that didn't stop Watson from wanting to throttle him for it.

Holmes tossed him a sideways glance full of sharp, conniving angles that made Watson think the detective knew exactly what he was thinking. "Understood. But if their intent were to kill me, I should think quite poorly of the sire’s intellect.” He read Watson’s questioning look in the slant of his eyebrows and explained, “They’ve every reason to believe me to be your thrall, and that makes me the only person known to them who would have knowledge of your whereabouts. If they cannot find you, I become their only link to doing so; I will be of no use to them dead.”

And none of that filled Watson with either confidence or reassurance. “Once the sire reads your thoughts he will know better,” Watson countered. “Your life might not mean as much as you believe; it would be the work of minutes to rip the truth from your mind. Possibly less.”

Holmes considered that. "What of your own mental abilities? Were another of the sire's thralls to be found, could you likewise read their mind, and pinpoint his location?"

Watson rubbed at the smooth skin of his brow in contemplation. "Not easily, though it depends a great deal on the strength of the master; a weak vampire makes for weak thralls. But even for the very young among us, thralling a mortal confers to them certain benefits; chief among them is an ability to withstand mental domination or attack. It is difficult to read their minds, and nearly impossible to give one an Order unless there is a very great disparity of strength between the two vampires."

"And age is the only vector by which a vampire's strength increases?" Holmes pressed, and Watson paused before he answered, because Holmes had a sharp look about him, something intense and driving lurking just under the surface of everything he said and Watson didn't trust it, that deconstructing gaze.

Holmes was up to something, Watson was sure of it.

"It is the only one I know of," he replied cautiously, "but again, I know very little. As we age our blood becomes more potent and that is reflected in all things, including the fortitude of our thralls."

"And is there any way to tell a thrall from a man?"

"Not by a causal glance. Human blood masks the scent of vampiric blood; I could taste a thrall but not smell them. Passing one on the street, I would have to make mental contact in order to know what they were." Had he ever fed from Newman or tried to read his mind, he would have known instantly what the man was. He regretted not doing so before; it might have saved them all a good deal of trouble.

"So we cannot know how many agents the sire has active in the city. That is a problem."

"True," Watson admitted, frowning deeply as he pulled himself from his reverie. "But maintaining a thrall requires they be given blood frequently. If there are other thralls in the city, the sire is not likely to be far."

But Holmes dismissed that with a flick of his fingers. "By train a man is no more than a day’s ride from anywhere in the Isle," he pointed out. After a brief stretch of silence he sighed and shifted on the settee. "I must speak with Mycroft," he said, and Watson blinked in surprise.

“Your brother? Is that wise?”

"Mycroft works in the government. Indeed, some might say he _is_ the government, in a fashion. His specialty is omniscience; if something wicked this way comes, he must know of it. If indeed he doesn't already."

"Human wickedness," Watson noted. "Do you think a man like him - a man like _you_ \- is going to believe in vampires any more than you did at first?" To be truthful, Watson was not at all keen on the idea of bringing another mortal into the fold. Certainly not one who worked in parliament. It could bring a host of problems to Watson's door...but if Holmes was correct about all of this, he had a host of problems on his doorstep already.

"Have you a better idea? I am quite open to suggestion."

"I suppose not. Do you really think he can help?" He tried to imagine how Mycroft - another mortal, with all the same weaknesses - might offer true assistance.

"Possibly. Though a more pertinent question is if."

"If? You think he'll refuse?"

A secret smile of indeterminable origin played around the edge of Holmes mouth. "Refuse to help? No, but he might not choose to help in the way I wish."

Watson snorted. "I wonder what way he would have in mind. One that does not involve you?"

"I cannot say. Mycroft's mind is private even to myself. There could be a distinct element of danger to you, however. If he thought our association would do me more harm than good, he would not hesitate to move against you. Even for one such as yourself, you would not want him as your enemy."

Holmes was certainly right about that. Mycroft was mortal, but he would still be a formidable adversary. At least for a vampire who disliked murder. "I would not," he admitted. "But I hope he will see that I have done more good for the city than bad."

"Mycroft is nothing if not sensible. It has been said he is too much so; he deals in all matters with cold reason. I am the only exception to this -- to be honest, I think he begrudges me slightly for it. Thus while he will no doubt see the logic in having you as an ally, whether he will find that logic sufficient enough to outweigh the danger inherent in such an alliance, I cannot say."

"Until now your danger has been from your own kind. Now the night will be as dangerous as the day. He _needs_ me." It was said too hurriedly, with too much vehemence but there was nothing for it now. Watson had long ago ceased to think of himself as anything other than Holmes' friend and ally, and it didn't sit well with him that Mycroft might feel otherwise.

If Holmes noticed the impassioned tone he did not comment on it. "My nights and days were dangerous enough before we met. I do not think he will look on my present circumstance as having been improved by our acquaintance."

Watson mastered himself, and answered with a far more measured spirit, "Then we must approach him with caution."

"Indeed. Now, on to the business at hand. How quickly will my leg heal, doctor?"

Watson considered. "Four weeks at the very least; your injuries were substantial.”

Holmes looked unhappy, quarrelsome furrow along his brow. “That long?”

“You are lucky it is not longer," he replied crisply. "The blood I gave you in the hospital has accelerated the healing.”

“Could you not do so again?” 

Watson shook his head. “No. I mean yes, I could, but I hesitate. I could perhaps manage another drop or two but that would not be terribly helpful beyond staving off infection. To achieve the miraculous would require enough blood to make you a thrall.“

Holmes leaned inward, that sharp look about him again that reminded Watson suddenly of a bear trap, great steel jaws ready to clamp shut around an unwary prey. “But it _could_ be achieved.”

And then, too late, Watson realized the danger; the direction all those innocuous questions about thralls had been pointing. “Holmes, no!” he chastised. “You do not understand what you are asking! A thrall is a cruel thing to do to a man. You- you would have no free will; if I even suggested that perhaps you should or should not do something, you would consider my opinion as superior to your own. My will would supersede yours in all things...that would be terrible!”

But Holmes had a considering look on his face. “How long would it last?” he asked, and Watson again had to stifle the urge to throttle him for his own good.

"I don't know – a week or two perhaps, even for a low-level of influence. I- I'm not sure how much more blood it would take for that to happen; it can be subtle at first."

A triumphant gleam lit up the detective's eyes, and Watson recognized it as a predator closing in for the kill. "And what is the greater danger; being at your mercy, or at theirs?"

 _Don't ask me that_ he thought miserably, Holmes’ damned, infernal _logic_ ensnaring him once again. "Holmes - I can't, I refuse! I've never turned anyone into a thrall, it wouldn't be right!"

But Holmes was practically purring, sensing imminent victory. Bit by bit he was luring Watson in and they both knew it. "And what are you going to do, carry me about the city on your back?"

Watson rolled his eyes, crossed his arms before him like a shield. "Are you really expecting them to try and murder you tomorrow morning? There is _no_ advantage to being a thrall, aside from being able to resist the minds of other vampires."

"No, they will probably not come tomorrow morning. But I will not be healed tomorrow morning; it will take several weeks at least, you said so yourself. As for being a thrall, there are two advantages; one, I will heal faster. Two, _I can resist the minds of other vampires._ They will not come for _me_ , they will come for you. And if they cannot find you, then they will come for me. Me and whatever information about you I have."

Watson sighed. It was hopeless, because Holmes had a damn good point. He could not defend himself from them either physically or mentally, and Watson could not aid him during the day. And if he was unwilling, well...the fact this might be necessary at all was directly Watson's fault. Still... "You would be putting your life, you morality, your very _reason_ in my hands. How could you trust me so? I tried to kill you!" Watson didn't understand it.

Holmes dismissed all that as beneath his notice. "Pah, you threatened me, is all. I have been threatened many times in my life, and by men with more intent behind their words than you. If it helps, you were not particularly convincing."

Watson tried to work out whether that made him feel better or worse. "I'm a _vampire_ ," he said dumbly, and Holmes smirked at him. 

"Believe it or not, Watson, I am considered a shrewd judge of character, and I judge yours to be sound. I cannot say the same for any others of your kind we might meet with."

Watson fretted a bit and chewed at his lip, intimately aware that Holmes thought far more highly of his moral capacity than himself. But to refuse was to leave Holmes defenseless. "If... if you truly wish this, then write down a list of things you refuse to do, things you would not forgive me for if I accidentally order you to do something. I shouldn't even speak with you honestly, once it's done."

"It may be for the best that you do not," he replied, instructing Watson to bring him a pen and paper. "In fact, you may wish to for us to quit each other's company entirely. You may keep an eye on me still, if you think it necessary, but the less of you I see the better overall. I cannot reveal what I do not know."

That was in fact the very last thing Watson wished, but he saw no recourse. Once again, Holmes was right. It was easily the most infuriating thing about him.

Watson fetched the paper, put it within easy reach and then admitted the truth, because it wouldn't mean anything to do so after Holmes was thralled. "It will pain me not to be around you."

"I am certain you will manage," he replied as carelessly as if Watson had been commenting on the weather.

It was not the reaction he had hoped for, though he knew well enough it was the only one to expect. He waited a moment, watching Holmes write then trudged doggedly forward, wanting to unburden himself, confess while Holmes was still his own man, capable of feelings and actions that were more than an extension of Watson's desires. "You probably don't remember, but you asked me to stay, that night in the hospital."

"I do not," he said crisply, writing out a rather extensive list.

Watson felt something inside him shrivel, and said no more. Holmes had given him his answer, and it was a bitter pill indeed.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” he said softly. Because once Holmes was under the thrall, his will would be forfeit. Whatever Watson wanted of him Holmes would grant.

Watson doubted his fortitude, in such a situation.

“I see no way around it, if everything is as you say,” Holmes rejoined nonchalantly, unaware of the danger at his back, the terrible peril he was about to place himself in. “You cannot protect me in the daylight, and wheelchair bound I am as good as caught.”

“You could go somewhere for a few weeks, hide-”

“Hide!?” he repeated, aghast, and looked up with a scandalized expression.

“Only until you are well-”

"An unknown enemy sits at our doorstep, threatening all London and you wish me to _hide?_ " He sounded as if Watson had just asked him to pull a carrot out of his ear.

"I wish you to be safe!" Watson corrected, too much passion in the words but there was nothing to be done about that now.

"Then heal me, that I may protect myself." He finished writing out the list with a flourish and handed it over. Watson plucked it from his outstretched hand and looked it over, glad for its extensiveness, and among the obvious items like 'murder' were less comprehensible ones, like 'eat a pear'. That one almost made him laugh. "May I ask you about any of these?"

"You may ask; there is no guarantee I will answer."

"Pears?"

"I don't like pears," he said simply.

Watson shrugged. “Odd you would find that as unforgivable as murder."

"It is not close to, but as you wish a list of things I would not do, eating pears must be on it somewhere. I see no reason to invite unpleasantness by being vague."

Watson sighed. "No, it's alright. If we must do this, I would prefer clarity as well." He put the paper down, shifting slightly because he now had nothing else to say, and no further reason to stall. Holmes was as resolute now has he had been before, and it was nothing more than wishful thinking on Watson’s part that had led him to hope otherwise.

"The... easiest way to do this will be for you to drink from me; the amount of blood needed to cure all your wounds is extensive, and trying to drip it into your injuries would be needlessly messy."

"Very well," Holmes replied, and if he was feeling any trepidation, it didn’t show on his face.

"This will be... very similar to the other experience," he added. He stood and grabbed the armchair, moving it to the settee as though it weighed less than a pillow. He sat again and licked his lips nervously.

"I am ready," Holmes said, which was all well and good because Watson certainly wasn’t. But keeping Holmes alive was important, and surely any invading vampire _would_ try to break into his mind, possibly even make him their thrall once it was discovered he wasn't one already, and Watson realized with a strong lurch in his stomach that he did _not_ want anyone else to take Holmes from him.

"No one else will make you their thrall," Watson said firmly, rolling up his sleeve. The he bit down on his own wrist and quickly brought it to Holmes' mouth.

Holmes paused as Watson's blood trailed a crimson path down his arm. "I take it this means no one can thrall someone already bound?"

"It would take an incredible amount of effort," Watson clarified. "They would have to dominate your mind first, which would be difficult, and then feed you enough of their own blood to counteract mine. For a vampire it is hardly worth the trouble, as humans are plentiful."

"Fascinating," he replied, and then because Watson's blood was still flowing freely, he raised his arm to his lips and drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and Here. We. Go!
> 
> (Yes, the pear thing is indeed a direct reference to Dr. Who. We apologize for nothing.)


	3. Uncharted Seas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: none, unless hot vampire sex is a trigger in which case you should stop reading this story right now.

Chapter 3: Uncharted Seas  


  
  


At first it was just blood; viscous fluid coating Holmes’ tongue, thick and copperish. But moments later it became something more, something sweeter, something _better,_ and warmth spread through his body as he felt Watson shudder and sigh in the chair next to him. The warmth quickly turned to desire and he found himself reluctant to stop as a drunken feeling of uninhibitedness washed over him. The world softened and shone like a morphine high and he could feel Watson's Will singing in his veins, taking hold of his mind but it was akin to a gentle embrace rather than an iron grip and he sank into it, unafraid.

He drank more. His mind was no longer his own, not really, Watson’s thoughts and desires now superimposed over his, not erasing them but melding the two together, fusing until he was uncertain where his own will ended and Watson’s began. He didn’t much mind. Watson would steer him right, and he found himself wanting to please the doctor, to listen to him and be guided by him in all things. He knew such thoughts were contrary to his own personality and understood them to be borne of the blood ritual he was partaking in, but he did not care.

Beside him Watson shuddered, his body curling towards Holmes like a question mark, one hand braced heavily against the settee. “Holmes,” he moaned out in a broken, breathless whisper, “stop, enough-”

**_STOP_ **

The words barely had any air behind them, but they echoed through Holmes’ bones and he obeyed instantly, because he couldn’t _not_. He didn’t want to try to anyway. He let Watson’s arm fall from his weakened grasp as his head lolled against the doctor’s side.

Watson sagged into him, weak-boned and heavy. He lifted his arm and licked the wound closed on his wrist, his other hand finding its way to Holmes’ head, fingers curling into his thick hair and Holmes made no move to prevent Watson touching him at all.

On the contrary, he never wanted him to stop.

He looked up with heavy-lidded eyes and found the doctor staring down at him with open affection. Watson reached down to stroke his face and Holmes leaned into the touch, feelings of warmth, comfort and possession flowing between them. He could not remember ever being so in love...

  
  


***

  
  


Watson stared down at Holmes and marveled. Whatever he had been expecting, it had certainly not been _this_. He had never had a thrall before, and the few vampires he'd conversed with on the subject had led him to understand it was not a particularly momentous act on his end; it was the human’s mind which was influenced, not the Master’s. As such, he had not expected to feel any different in his regard for the mad detective.

What a hopelessly foolish presumption.

Watson slipped off the chair and onto the settee, wanting to get as close to Holmes as possible. He stroked his hair, possessive thoughts filling his mind, sharper and more insistent than they had been before... Holmes was _his_ , belonged to _him_ , no one else...and with those thoughts came others, chief among them the understanding that he belonged to Holmes as well.

It was not a concept that bothered him, though he knew it should.

"Holmes," he whispered, voice rough and desperately wanting, “Oh, Holmes...”

Holmes was nearly purring, eyes heavy-lidded and body laying languid against his own and he looked disastrously beautiful, a dusky-hued angel made flesh and blood.

He trailed his fingers down Holmes' face and Holmes melted against his hand with a sigh that sent shivers down Watson’s spine. Gliding his thumb over Holmes' bottom lip he could feel his damp breath, still hot and just this side of quickened. Holmes was so alive, so enticing and the scent of their joined blood thrumming through his veins was sweeter than honey...but he didn’t want to _feed_ from Holmes. If he drank any of that precious blood it would only be to strengthen their connection, to join them together more completely.

Holmes' lips slid open and he leaned unconsciously forward, his skin feverish beneath Watson’s cold hand, Watson’s blood in his body making him literally burn with desire; with _Watson’s_ desire...or perhaps Watson was burning with his. He couldn’t tell the difference, anymore.

"Yes," Holmes breathed, arching his neck in invitation and the pulse thrumming there begged for Watson’s teeth, “drink.” Neither of them seemed to remember that this was meant to be a minimum thrall, done to the barest amount necessary to get Holmes back on his feet.

Watson couldn’t deny him, fingers already tightening in Holmes’ hair and he arched the man's neck even farther as he leaned down, licking the length of his carotid and feeling it pulse hot beneath his tongue. Holmes was perfect, the most perfect human he'd ever met, his scent intoxicating. Watson was hypnotized, love-sick and lost.

It was exquisite.

Holmes sighed, body relaxing into Watson's grip as he gave himself over, feelings of contentment, want and desire pouring off him like heat. "Please-" he begged, and Watson nearly choked on his own words, unspoken assurances that yes, of course, anything Holmes wanted. He sank his teeth into Holmes’ neck and the sweet ambrosia of the detective’s blood flooded his mouth. He could taste their blood mixed together, and it was perfect. His eyes rolled upward and he flushed with pleasure for the second time that night.

Were he to die in that eternal moment, it would be the best of endings.

Holmes whimpered but was in pleasure and ecstasy, Watson could sense that much as the feelings flowed between them like blood. They were well and truly joined this way, Watson’s teeth in Holmes’ throat the most intimate of kisses.

For all that, Watson let go after only a small drink and watched in fascination as Holmes’ neck healed itself in front of his eyes, the vampiric blood that now suffused his body doing its duty and knitting mortal flesh together. So long as the thrall was maintained, he would heal far more quickly than a normal man.

"God... I love you," he whispered in broken awe, laying Holmes back down against the settee with gentle hands and pulling away his shirt to inspect the wound on his shoulder. It was beginning to heal already, flesh closing up on itself, and new skin beginning to grow.

Holmes’ chest was heaving, and he stared at Watson with eyes fogged by desire. “Yes...Master,” he breathed, because nowhere on the list did Holmes tell Watson not to let him use the title. Such a thing wouldn’t have occurred to either of them. It was a shock of cold water on Watson’s fevered mind and he pulled back, flinching as if the word had been a physical blow against his skin. Something about it felt _wrong_ , and he didn’t like hearing Holmes say it. He was _not_ Holmes’ Master, and had no desire to be so.

"Shh..." he said, cupping Holmes' face and silencing him with a desperate kiss. "No! Don't – don't call me that...never that. I am not your Master. I am- I'm your _doctor_."

“Yes,” Holmes parroted, head bobbing like a drunkard. “My doctor, yes.”

"I love you," he whispered again, his whole heart in the word.

“Of course you do,” Holmes replied, and it was such a very _Holmesian_ thing to say that Watson couldn’t help laughing, but then Holmes looked up at him and added with childlike sincerity, “I am yours.”

So he was.

Watson knew this, of course. He could feel it; the emotions and thoughts thrumming through Holmes like an echoing drum beat. "You're healing so well," he approved, fingers trailing over the skin of Holmes' shoulder as it knit itself together, millimetre by millimetre. And then he was pressing their lips together, because he could, and because Holmes’ wanted him to anyway.

Watson didn’t need to breathe, so the kiss was long and indulgently deep.

  
  


***

  
  


Holmes _did_ need to breathe, but he swore Watson was sustaining him, breathing for him. Watson was the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins.

Watson's heart beat in his chest.

Holmes knew himself, knew that it should bother him, to be so overcome...but it did not. Thrall and all else aside, for the first time in many months his soul was at peace, unburdened by guilt and loss. He did not love Stamford any less than before, but the shadow that had fallen over him this last long half year had retreated beneath the blinding light of Watson’s presence. It was an unspeakable relief.

He did not know if there were words enough for the feelings he had right now. Feelings he had not expected to ever have again. His stone-grey heart had cracked open, and inside there was still living tissue. It was a miracle on par with the parting of the seas; he had not thought it possible.

Holmes was breathless by the time Watson let him go, face flushed fever-bright and hands fluttering like crippled birds against the hard marble of Watson’s shoulders.

"What do you want?" Watson asked him, voice a dusky shade of wanton that set Holmes’ mind afire.

"Everything,” he replied honestly. “Oh Watson...everything. All of you. Forever."

"Holmes!" he nearly sobbed, voice breaking and he slipped a cold hand into his trousers, fingers wrapping around him as he pulled him in for another kiss. “I’m sorry,” he said between kisses, “I can’t- this is all I can do for you.”

“It is enough,” Holmes assured him, because it wasn’t really about the physical; that was only one aspect of many. This thing between them was so much deeper and richer and purer than any of that, that if Watson could do nothing at all Holmes would be content to do no more than lay by his side. It was not so wholly unsuspected in any case. If Watson's skin could not flush, he almost certainly could not become aroused, not in the physical sense. But Watson’s hands were as skilled here as they were in the surgery, and he soon unraveled Holmes completely, had him shaking and spent in his arms, thoughts no longer a torrenting river but a slow trickling brook, and every one of them had Watson at its center.

At least nothing they had done had been on the list...

"I admit I did not expect such...intensity," he marveled, and Watson was quick to agree.

"Nor did I," he said, shaking his head. "Nothing... nothing I had heard could have prepared me for it." He continued to touch Holmes in an absent manner, fingers stroking through his hair and running all over. "I daresay anyone trying to break the thrall will have an insurmountable task before them."

"I do not think I want it broken," Holmes admitted, "though I cannot say if that is the thrall speaking for me. I hope it is not; I do not want this to be mere illusion."

"I know it is certainly _my_ will that it not be," Watson replied, tracing a slow pattern over the skin on his stomach, "so we shall simply have to wait and see if your feelings change with its fading. For now you cannot trust anything you feel while I am around." He sighed then, glancing towards the darkened window. "I suppose I should go... you still need rest. Take the day to let your mind clear; you will feel my influence less if I am not around."

"I do not want you to go," Holmes said petulantly, and folded Watson’s cold hand into his own.

Watson smiled sadly, and Holmes wanted to kiss away the crease of worry that formed between his brows. “Of course you do not, because _I_ do not want to go. It is my will you are feeling, not your own. But to protect you I must- it is too dangerous for me to stay during the day. I wouldn’t be able to protect you while in torpor anyway. I would be more than useless, if I stayed. For if danger befell you, you would be torn between protecting me and protecting yourself."

"Yes, yes...you are right," Holmes relented, aware that even that was suspect. "But you will come again, after dark?"

"Of course I-” he began, then stopped. “No. I mean- I'm meant to watch you from afar," he reminded. "You are not supposed to know where I am, in order to keep us both safe."

It is the last thing Holmes wanted to hear, the words like physical pain. "I do not need to know where you sleep in order to see you," he argued, desperate. Yes, he would submit to Watson's will, because the thrall would hardly let him do anything else and therefore if Watson said no Holmes could not help but obey. But surely, he was allowed to plead his case.

"Oh Holmes," Watson said, and he sounded as though his heart would break. He held him close and kissed him again. "I don't _want_ to leave you at all, but your safety is my greatest desire.” He thought a moment. “Here then; I will scout the area tomorrow night. If there is no danger I can see, then I will come to you just before the sun rises.”

"How long will this thrall last? You said a few weeks...I do not think I can bear it."

"I'm sorry," Watson said in earnest. "Please try. I- I had no idea it would be so strong - I find myself wanting to bend to _your_ will, yet I do not know if it is simply my own desires being spoken through your lips. As such, I cannot trust myself either."

"We have made rather a mess of things, haven't we?" he said, burying his face in Watson's shirt.

Watson laughed, the sound reverberating in his chest. "I suppose we have. Our intentions were good, at least." He gently stroked Holmes' hair, holding him close. "How are your injuries?" he asked suddenly. "You may still have some pain, and a limp, but the wound should be closed at least."

"I feel much better. Certainly well enough to walk."

"Well, let's see then," he prompted, letting him go at last and standing to give him space.

It was a challenge, certainly; his leg was still weak, the muscles and bone still mending. But he could hobble about a bit, so long as he was careful.

"By dawn you will be even stronger," Watson promised, holding out a steadying arm. "You'll be able to outrun them in no time." A brief look of consternation crossed his face, and he said haltingly,"By the way...I don't know for certain, but what if you continued to pretend you're severely injured, in order to not raise suspicion from others? If you're gallivanting about London two days after shattering your knee, someone is going to be suspicious. People might assume you faked the injury in the first place; that could throw the entire investigation into question."

Holmes smiled, well ahead of the doctor. "I have already taken such into consideration, It will not be difficult to fake a convalescence."

"Good," Watson said, his voice both full of praise and relief that at the very least, Holmes' mind still seemed to be functioning. "Knowing you of course, people won't be surprised to see you out and about in a week or two with a cane and a limp."

"Oh, I intend to be out and about much sooner than that. Fear not doctor, I have a plan."

"I'm sure you do," he replied, and seemed to be trying very hard not to appear skeptical about the wiseness of whatever Holmes was planning. "Will you be using one of your disguises?"

"Not for my face, only the lack of injury. It will not do much good against our enemies, I fear. I helped you and therefore it is likely they already believe me to have been under your thrall; it is no great stretch to assume you would heal me as well. But for the rest of the world, Sherlock Holmes must remain an invalid."

"I'm confident you'll manage." He glanced to the window. "It will be dawn soon, but I have time to stay a bit longer."

"Stay then," he said, taking Watson's hand again. He felt genuinely tied to Watson now, as if their souls had become one. He told himself it was simply Watson's blood in his veins speaking for him, but that hardly seemed to matter.

"I will," he promised, "As long as I can." He pulled Holmes down to the settee again, his body cold against Holmes’ own. "You are the most wondrous man," he muttered into Holmes' hair.

They tarried until the very last moment, until dawn was a pale sliver of grey over the horizon and Watson’s eyes grew heavy with impending sleep.

"I have to go now," he said, gently untangling their limbs. "The sun is rising, and I'm not safe here."

"I know," he said with regret, kissing Watson's cold fingers, "I know, though I wish it were otherwise."

"I'm afraid the dawn will always part us," he said with poetic flair, caressing Holmes' face. He closed his eyes, seeming on the verge of sleep, the dragged them open again, and reached for his coat. "I need to leave," he said quickly, "I will return to you near dawn tomorrow,”

"Yes,” Holmes agreed, understanding both the danger and the need for sleep. He still let their touch linger before releasing Watson to the dawn. And then the doctor was slipping out the window, and was gone.

Holmes sighed and let his head slip down onto the back of the settee, already missing him.

But for the first time in days he wasn't in pain, and that was a good thing. Eventually, he even managed to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE BACK ON OUR BULLSHIT!
> 
> One of the editors has been busy with surviving summer school break in the southern hemisphere and the other getting their PHD in rock collecting, but school is officially back in session and so are we!


	4. Withdrawal Symptoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: none

Chapter 4: Withdrawal Symptoms  


  
  


Mrs. Hudson, who knew his habit so well, waited until nearly ten o' clock before knocking on his door.

"Mr. Holmes? How are you feeling?" 

He had fallen asleep on the settee but came quickly awake, arm and leg still stiff but both much better than they had been. "Better," he called, tugging on his shirt and hastily doing up the buttons, "and ready for tea, though you may wish to wait before bringing it in least you be scandalized. Not that I've any objection, but I know your delicate sensibilities." 

She huffed at him in response, but tarried long enough he had time to make himself look presentably pitiable; his arm back in the sling and leg propped onto pillows. "You look better," she agreed as she stepped inside, setting the tea tray down and fixing him a cup, unaware he was perfectly capable of doing so himself. She tutted at him as he took it from her one handed. "Poor dear... If you need anything just let me know. I'll likely tolerate you for a week, at least." 

"Just the tea for now," he said, And Watson, but that was not something anyone could give him. 

She glanced around at the state of the sitting room with a shake of her head, gathered up a few dirty plates and left. He drank a bit, allowed himself a pipe of tobacco and then summoned nanny again to send a wire to the Yard, bothering Lestrade about the case. If he was going to malinger, he could not be lazy about it. To hear nothing from him would arouse far more suspicion than if he kept his obstinate hand in the game. Surprisingly, it was the inspector himself who called that afternoon. Lestrade rarely visited Baker Street in person, usually preferring to send one of his officers instead. 

"You're looking much better," he said, echoing Mrs. Hudson's words from earlier. 

"A night in one's own house and a generous dose of morphine does wonders. What on the subject of our missing man?" 

"No sign of him yet," Lestrade replied, which was wholly unsurprising given no such man existed. "No one even knew the vicar had a son, and we've no idea where he might have disappeared to." 

"Have you spoken to the diocesans? The bishop would know where the vicar was placed before coming to London. It will be somewhere to start." 

"I've sent communications out but haven't heard anything back yet aside from the cursory "thank you for your work in this case" nonsense that means nothing at all." 

Holmes packed his pipe one handed. "You ought to send out a summons instead." 

"I don't think the Yard has the right to summon a Bishop," Lestrade said with a doubtful frown. 

Holmes harrumphed at him, "You are a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, an officer of the court; you have the authority of the Crown behind you. The bishop has information vital to your case, and the vicar was his man. You've as much right to summon him as you would any criminal's employer." 

Lestrade acquiesced with surprisingly little fuss. "You seem quite confident about that, and when Sherlock Holmes is confident, I would be a fool to disagree. I'll send a summons this afternoon." 

"Good man, though last time I was confident it ended rather badly; do take care." He shifted, ostensibly to redistribute the weight on his leg. "Now, when do you suppose I might have a look about the crime scene?" 

Lestrade looked him over with a skeptical eye. “I’d accuse you of jest but I know you better than that. I spoke to the surgeon; your leg was shattered, Holmes. Even if I had you carried up the steps, you’d be either in too much pain or on too much morphine to be of any use. It's been cleaned up anyway. We already know as what happened, so there wasn't much point in leaving a mess.” 

That was nothing more than what he’d expected to hear. “Tell me then, what did you find when you searched the clergy house?" 

"Quite a lot of the vicar's affects, but no record of what he was doing. We did come across some fishy correspondences that sound an awful lot like blackmail from what we've been able to make of them." 

He perked up, "Correspondence, from who?" 

"Can’t say," he replied, “They were in the fireplace; there isn’t much left of them." 

"Were they indeed? Whole or partially burnt?" 

"Most were completely burnt, but a few of them escaped the worst of the flames. We think they were thrown in the fire shortly before Deighton's son got loose. Must've been a good number of them, and most not more than ash. But some fell to the side and those we retrieved. They're a bit hard to make out, though." 

"I should like to see them; piecing them together might prove an adequate distraction for a time." 

Lestrade shrugged. “I can have a constable bring them ‘round this afternoon.” 

"Excellent. What of the priest, Newman?" 

"Couldn't find out much about him; he didn’t have many personal belongings. Seems he took the Good Book’s idea of austerity quite seriously. " 

Holmes snorted softly. “Hmm, if only he’d done the same in regards to murder. Ah well, anything else pertinent to the case?" Most likely the dearth of material items was due to the fact he’d been a thrall. Holmes suspected Newman had been sent to London with the purpose of keeping an eye on Father Deighton; What point would there be in acquiring anything beyond the most basic of necessities? Would the thrall even allow him to consider such notions as personal comfort and material desires? He did not know. Certainly his own experience did not seem so overpowering in that regard, but it appeared the effect of thrall was different for everyone. Holmes had certainly not detected in Newman any of the all-encompassing devotion for his Master than he held for Watson.

Lestrade was speaking again. "No identifying items in the clothing, no personal letters, and no one in the congregation had heard of him before his arriving at the clergy house. The man might have appeared out of thin air." 

"And no other accomplices, I presume." 

“We’ve no reason to suspect anyone but the vicar and Newman. No one else was allowed inside the clergy house aside from the maid, and she weren't permitted upstairs." He shook his head, rubbing at his face. Lestrade was a practical man but he was also devout; this case had rattled him rather more than he cared to admit. "A vicar, murdering half a dozen people, and for what reason? To "save" their souls? It's depraved. And his own son a prisoner!" 

"Perhaps he thought to keep them from becoming like the son. Who can say; the man was mad." 

"Beyond mad," Lestrade agreed, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of his office. "I've seen madness - or I thought I had, until now. This is something truly monstrous." He sighed, "Well. At least London still has its detective." 

"I'm flattered. Should you wish to be truly grateful you will fetch me those papers so that I might have something to do of an evening while I convalesce." 

Lestrade made his promises to do so once more, then left Holmes to his own devices. Once the inspector was gone Holmes sighed wistfully, finding a good portion of his attention claimed by Watson. The hard marble of his body as it pressed unyielding against Holmes' burning skin, the burnished bronze of his hair, the impossible color of his eyes...he wondered if such feelings really would fade with the absence of Watson's blood. If not, he was a lost man. 

He couldn't even say he would regret being so. 

  
  


***

It was well into the afternoon by the time Lestrade's man came by with the letters. Sergeant Clark was a solid, dependable sort of man, slightly more competent than the average London peeler (though that was faint praise indeed) and Holmes was inclined to think as well of him as he did any of the Scotland Yard constabulary. Which was to say, marginally. That and the fact Clark seemed less bothered by Holmes' eccentricities than most meant it was nearly always he Lestrade sent to Baker Street on police business, making Clark Holmes' unofficial liaison to the Yard.

"Mister Holmes, sir," Clark greeted him, standing to attention the same way he would for a superior officer. Clark was always 'siring' him and standing to; Holmes found it endlessly amusing. He himself held with no such formalities. 

"Clarky!" he cried jovially, knowing it was a nickname Clark particularly disliked, and upon learning such had refused thereafter to call him anything else. "Do come in. I assume you have the letters?"

"Indeed, sir," he replied, striding forward and setting a wrapped paper envelope upon the table where it would be within easy reach. "Inspector Lestrade bids me to remind you to be careful with them; they are very delicate." Clark was too much ruled by propriety to say anything against his superior, but Holmes could tell by the faint cadence of his voice how unnecessary he considered that particular warning. It was one of the lesser injustices of the world that Clark would likely never make Inspector himself, despite having a quicker mind than most of the men who held the title. His social status and Irish ancestry were both against him, and those counted for far more in the world than intelligence and acumen. A shame, really, but only one such shame in a thousand, and nothing to be done about it anyway so Holmes didn't spare a great deal of attention ruminating on it.

"Excellent. Hand me that jeweler's lope on the shelf behind you, there's a chap." 

Clark fetched the strange device, then waited with practiced patience to see if Holmes required anything further. Holmes let him stand there in silence for a few moments like a bounder before finally taking pity on him.

"Thank you Clarky; that will be all. I shall send word to the Yard with my progress." 

"Very good, sir" he replied with a quick and informal bow, taking his leave and the corner of Holmes' mouth quirked up at the constable's insistence on treating him as some sort of superior. It was a harmless quirk at least. A bit later Mrs. Hudson came up the steps with tea, finding him with the letters spread out before him like a jigsaw puzzle. He'd been staring at them for well over an hour but found it devilishly hard to concentrate. Watson haunted all his thoughts, the dark space behind his eyes filled with bone white hands and golden smiles tinged in blood.

"You should eat," she suggested. "Hard to heal a body on an empty stomach." 

"Set it there," he said absently, nodding to an empty space on his left. "I'll attend to it after I've finished." 

"So, in three days," she snipped with a heavy sigh, setting it down. She didn't badger him further at least, sweeping out the room with the remains from breakfast, his perceived invalidity causing her to hold her tongue far more than was her wont. 

He didn't eat, in fact. He didn't require food to sustain him. 

He required Watson. 

The sun was a slow moving beast that crept it's way over the city and Holmes was on the verge of distraction by the time it set, his concentration in tatters, the doctor claiming dominion over his every thought. His attention pulled time and time again to the window and the darkness beyond it; the man who lay waiting there. Holmes could sense him in a distant way; _feel_ him but not see or touch him, and it was a gnawing sort of agony. He sighed and looked longingly at his desk with it's morphine bottle secreted away... but no. Watson would be terribly disappointed in him, and he found the thought an effective deterrent against indulging. 

He sighed again and went back to trying to read through the singed and soot covered letters. The chief of them comprised correspondence from a nameless man - undoubtedly Newman's Master - and were addressed to the vicar. There were threats both direct and implied aimed toward Deighton and at his son. Newman was named several times as well, often in the context of being a watchdog. But none of that told him anything he did not already know... 

The clock chimed midnight.

"Damn" he muttered, pushing himself away from the desk. He nibbled a piece of cold toast and drank the now (very) cold tea. Maybe thrall had been a mistake. He couldn't work like this. 

A sudden noise at the widow and he looked up sharply. Watson sat crouched just inside the casement, staring at him like a drowning man taking in air. "Holmes-"

Holmes stomach clenched, his heart fluttering into his throat and for a moment he couldn't even talk. "Watson," he croaked, and then the doctor scrambled inside, closing the window behind him. 

"I'm sorry - I know I said I'd wait till dawn, but I couldn't, I was watching you, I needed..." he took a half-step into the room. 

"Don't- there is no apology. Come here." It was as articulate as he could be under the circumstances. 

Watson came, pulling Holmes into his arms and holding him tightly, Holmes lips on him already. He didn't care if Watson could enjoy such physical affections; Holmes could and he intended to. "The day has never moved so slowly." 

Watson kissed him back in passionate agreement. "The hours expand when you need them to shrink," he muttered between kisses, threading his fingers through Holmes' hair. 

"Yes," he breathed, sinking against Watson, his body cold and hard and startlingly real. "I loved Stamford; I do still. But I did not feel for him what I feel for you."

Watson dragged them both over to the settee and fell down with Holmes still in his arms, the detective laying half atop him. "It's the thrall. It seems - it seems to intensify emotional attachments," he added finally, and Holmes glanced up. 

"That would imply there was an attachment to begin with," he pointed out, and Watson looked quite guilty. Holmes raised an eyebrow in understanding. "Ah."

"I'm sorry," Watson blurted out, "I'm so sorry, Holmes. I didn't know- I had no idea it would be so- from the few vampires I spoke with, they never mentioned anything like this. They treated thralls as tools, or pets..." 

Holmes silenced him with another kiss, which proved quite effective. "Hush, say no more of it. I am not upset."

"Of course not; you're under thrall. How could you be anything but enamored with me?" he said miserably.

Holmes had him stripped of both jacket and waistcoat in moments. "You give yourself too much credit. If all the thrall did was reflect your emotions onto me, should I _not_ be upset with you, given your present state?" 

Watson blinked, taking a moment to work his way around Holmes' logic. "I- I don't know. But not if the thrall is a reflection of my feelings towards _you_ , and not myself."

Holmes found himself rather distracted by the buttons on Watson's shirt, and the promise of skin underneath. "Hmm, possibly. In either case, it hardly matters. What has befallen us is an unforeseen consequence, but hardly a terrible one. I am, as you say, enamored with you, and you with me. That is a better outcome than my being helpless. As to it's permanence, we shall simply have to wait and see." Nimble fingers danced their way over Watson's shirt, popping open buttons as they went.

For some reason, the doctor still felt like talking. "But it isn't _real,_ Holmes. You don't really feel this way about me."

"So?" he asked impatiently, peeling the shirt from Watson's shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. "I am telling you, there is nothing to be _done_. Real or imagined, the feelings are here between us. To deny them would bring us both torture. Stop trying to fight it, doctor, there is no point. Allow me at least the illusion of happiness before I return to my former state of melancholy."

That did the trick and Watson gave in, letting Holmes have his way, which involved a good deal more kissing. They passed several engrossing minutes or so in that manner, and then Holmes stopped rather abruptly. 

"Ammonium hydroxide," he said suddenly. "I am a fool to not have thought of it before." 

"What's that?" Watson pulled away, looking up at him with his hair mussed and clothes pulled aside. He looked adorably stupefied, and Holmes wanted to kiss him again. But his mind had started to work properly.

"The papers there- ammonium hydroxide will suck the iron out of the ink, so long as they are not too burnt. Here-" and then was off, that familiar focus back. But this time when he took to his desk, he dragged Watson along with him. 

Watson followed dutifully, hand resting on Holmes' shoulder as he worked and far from being a distraction, Holmes found himself better able to direct his thoughts when the doctor was nearby. The world made a good deal more sense when the doctor was within easy reach. Holmes worked quickly, hands flashing as he mixed up a small vial of chemicals, put a clean sheet of foolscap over the charred paper and poured a bit of the liquid over it. "Let us see what Newman was trying to conceal." 

A heraldry mark that had been too burnt to read soon became apparent on top layer; two snakes entwined around a castle. It was not a mark Holmes was familiar with.

"Do you recognize it?" he asked, and Watson shook his head. Words then began to appear, and Holmes leaned it to read them. 

_I am growing impatient with your "project", vicar. Do you think Newman does not tell me everything you do? It amused me at first, but now you have attracted attention. The presence of the Other is turned to you now, as well as Scotland Yard. Such carelessness will not be tolerated._

"The 'Other',“ Holmes said, “that’s you. Scotland Yard is me, and the investigation. This must have been written shortly after Langley's death; the Sire would know you were behind his demise."


	5. Of Sires and Thralls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: none

Chapter 5: Of Sires and Thralls  


  
  


Watson looked grave indeed. “I regret being so rash in regards to Langley now. I had no idea it would bring us such troubles.” 

"You had already been identified," Holmes reminded him. "Newman would have sent word of you as soon as Montressor's suspicions came to light. Who knows how many agents have been prowling the city in search of you? Things were going to come to a head whether you'd killed Langley or not, regardless of where you deposited his corpse." 

"And we know for certain now they are coming here, likely in force. I wonder if this mysterious sire will appear himself, or rely solely upon his thralls? He surely has other vampires at his disposal, other fledglings he can call upon." 

"I cannot say. I would like to kiss you again." 

Watson blinked at the sudden change of conversation, then smiled. "I would very much like that as well." 

"Sorted then," Holmes said, and indulged. 

After a few engrossing moments he pulled away with a gentle sigh and leaned his head against Watson's shoulder, having judged it eminently suitable for leaning upon. "I must to the Diogenes club in the morning to speak with Mycroft, and to parliament - there is an extensive record book recording the various crests of European houses kept there. It is far greater than my own catalog; I may find our mysterious friend's mark therein." 

"That's a wonderful idea," Watson said happily, no doubt eager to encourage Holmes to spend his time in well lit, public places where the threat of danger was minimal, and not sneaking into churches and skulking about alleyways where known murders lurked in the shadows. 

Holmes bent over the letters once more. He found it much easier to focus now he had Watson within easy reach. That spoke abysmally of his concentration in the daylight hours, but things were as they were. 

He knew he should hate this feeling, knowing his mind was not his own, that this infatuation was born of something other than himself and yet, he did not. Though he also accepted that as the thrall faded, he would likely begin to feel differently. 

He knew Watson looked toward that end with trepidation, fearing Holmes would hate and despise him for it all but it was an illusory fear that held no weight behind it. This had been done at his behest, even over Watson’s objections. His regard for the doctor may sink back down to one of mere respect and scientific fascination, but Holmes could not blame him for choices made of his own free will, however unforeseen the consequences. 

"What else do they say?" Watson asked, catching the thoughtful look on Holmes' face and he leaned back, inviting Watson’s scrutiny with a wave of his hand. 

"Here, you may read them for yourself. Perhaps you will see something in them I have overlooked." 

Watson braced a hand on Holmes’ shoulder and leaned forward, peering at the ruined documents. 

"Newman was obviously his man," he muttered, "here he mentions that Newman is 'returning to London' - he must've traveled in order to maintain the thrall. Quite a risk, I'd think. If the man were delayed, he might start to fight it." 

"Either the thrall must go to the master or the master must go to the thrall. It is clear the sire did not wish to enter London, therefore Newman had to make himself available. “ 

“If we only knew where he had gone, our work might be easier.” 

“North,” Holmes answered immediately, “no more than a day’s ride from London. Unfortunately, by train that puts him nearly anywhere between here and Scotland.” 

“How on earth do you know that?” Watson demanded, and Holmes cast him a sharp look blunted by fondness. 

“Newman frequently headed north on the pretense of missionary work. The last time was just before I left the church’s employ. He was gone three days, and when he returned he was a changed man. More focused, more zealous in his crusade for blood. It was in fact his interest in Blevins that caused me to put an end to that particular charade. He was absent on similar work the night Langley died.” 

“He was traveling back to the sire for more blood,” Watson surmised. “I may have been wrong to kill him, you know. If his Master felt one tenth for him what I do for you, he will want to disembowel me personally.” 

“I do not think so. You say vampires treat their thralls as food and tools, if such is the case then we can conclude our own situation to be unique.” 

“I have heard that thrall can affect men differently. Anything from slavish devotion to grudging obedience, though it often falls to the former. However, I have never heard of a vampire being similarly affected. Perhaps it is because I was drawn to you even before we shared blood.” 

“We do not know enough of the condition to theorize,” Holmes chastised. 

“What _do_ we know?” 

“Not a great deal, and there we are at a disadvantage. At the moment our mysterious friend knows far more about us than we do about him. However, if we can identify this crest, we shall know a good deal more.” 

Watson sighed heavily, ponderous line between his brows marring the preternatural smoothness of his face. “I can’t help but wonder why he went through with it all. I understand he was searching for me, but why use the clergy? Why not the police? And why bother to blackmail Deighton when he could have thralled him instead?” 

Holmes clicked his tongue and reached for his pipe. “You forget that a thrall must be maintained, and Deighton’s parish sits well within London’s borders. As a vicar he could not always be leaving and returning again without catching the attention of the bishop, and the sire had no idea how tight a grip you might have over the upper members of London’s clergy. He could not risk their notice becoming yours, nor could he risk entering the city himself. Newman, on the other hand, who was not a minister and had never been ordained, was free to come and go as he pleased. 

As for using the church rather than the police, it was a stroke of brilliance that speaks of someone with considerable powers of ratiocination. Who else besides a reverend is privy to so many secrets and confessions from so many disparate corners of life? Police are only called upon where there is a disturbance; when the status quo has been upset. But you were a hidden Prince, one who moved unseen through the city. You would be as invisible to the Yard as you were to everyone else. A priest, however, is a confessor who carries many a dark secret beneath his mantle. Nor is it likely that Deighton was his only such spy.” 

He had been touching Watson this whole time, either a hand pressed to his back or leaning against his side or their heads touched briefly together. He was not wholly conscious of it, but it helped soothe and ground him to have his hands on the man. 

Watson watched him thoughtfully for a moment, some inscrutable emotion passing through his eyes. 

“What?” Holmes asked him, and then to his questioning look added, “You wish to tell me something.” 

“I was considering taking you to the bedroom.” 

“Scandalous. What did you have planned for when we got there?” 

“I was thinking you could lay down.” 

Holmes blinked at him, mildly surprised and distantly disappointed. "Lay down?" 

“Yes, Holmes, as in rest. You are tired. When is the last time you’ve slept in a proper bed?” 

“I don’t remember,” he said dismissively, because the truth was that he’d tended to avoid spending much time in his bed since Stamford died. He would sleep on the settee, or in the chair, or on the floor by the fireplace. But not the bed. Too many memories lingered there. 

Watson stood and held out his hand in silent invitation, and Holmes found himself taking it without protest. Watson drew him forward to the bedroom and pressed him upon the mattress with a hand on his chest until he was laying supine against the pillows. He considered the ease with which Watson managed him, but the thrall prevented him from considering it too deeply. If Watson wished to take him to bed, Holmes had no complaints. How could he? 

His eyes wandered to the side of the bed Stamford had always claimed as his own, but the poison had been drained from those memories; they were now more sweet than bitter. 

“It’s all right,” Watson said softly, sensing the direction of his thoughts. He pulled off his bracers and shoes to join Holmes in the bed. 

"It is now," Holmes replied, and it was part of the reason he did not want the thrall to fade. Because on the other side there was only pain, and memories to cripple a man. 

"Good," Watson said. Then, “How long were you and he together?" 

“A little over four years.” 

A slight smile touched his lips. “I had only known him for three.” 

“He was a most remarkable boy,” Holmes continued, “Devilishly clever. Had the most extraordinary gift for languages, as well as possessing the singular ability to know precisely what I was thinking at any given time.” 

“He was quite good at that, wasn’t he?” Watson said, carding his fingers through Holmes’ hair, arm draped carelessly about his shoulders. 

“How did you meet?” 

“He had been injured in a brawl, and needed the services of an after-hours doctor. He admired my discretion as well as my rates, and returned to my practice whenever he required a physician. He did eventually confess to being your confidant, and the cases you worked together the reason for his not infrequent patronage.” 

“He never mentioned you,” Holmes mused. “I wonder why?” 

“I like to think it was because I had asked him not to reveal my secret to anyone, and if the two of us had ever met, you certainly would have known something was amiss. In all fairness, he never revealed the true nature of your relationship to me, either.” 

“The true nature of our relationship would have landed us both in gaol, doctor. You can hardly blame him for keeping it hidden.” 

Watson smiled fondly. “He did say you disliked both doctors and hospitals, and preferred to look after your own health.” 

“I’ve nothing against the medical profession; doctors are a necessary feature of any civilization. However, I-” his voice faltered slightly. 

“You dislike being touched,” Watson finished for him, “save for the very few people you have chosen to allow the privilege.” 

“Indeed, indeed,” Holmes agreed, and moved closer, as Watson was obviously in the aforementioned category of privileged individuals. 

“I am honored to be among their number,” Watson said, and Holmes peered at him with a disconcerting gaze. 

“Are you reading my thoughts?” 

“I don’t have to; ever since the thrall your emotions I can sense without effort, and with greater nuance than before.” 

“Fascinating,” Holmes murmured, and laced their fingers together, marveling at how quickly he had become accustomed to the doctor’s cold touch; how welcome he now found it. He closed his eyes and attempted to sense Watson in the same way, to look for him with something other than his eyes. 

_There_. There was something flowing past him, shimmering like gossamer. An undercurrent of love, adoration and deep respect. Holmes could feel it if he concentrated, and tried to reach out with his own mind, to touch that glimmering surface... 

“Hello,” Watson said, sounding slightly surprised. 

“What is it?” Holmes asked, his scientific mind beginning to churn. “What did you experience?” 

“I felt you,” Watson replied, “Just now. Distant, but unmistakable.” 

“Most extraordinary. Is that typical for thralls?” 

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Watson admitted. “But I think we have already established ours is a different beast from most.” 

They spent the whole of the night together, though it was less passionate than Holmes might have hoped. Watson refused to indulge him as much as he desired, blaming his amorous feelings on the thrall, despite Holmes presenting the very logical argument that if such feelings were dictated by thralling, he would not have them if Watson did not want him to. 

“I _do_ want you to have them, that’s the trouble,” he answered unhappily, and Holmes quieted him with a kiss. Then he curled into the doctor’s cold embrace and did something quite remarkable. 

He fell asleep. 

***

He would have been happy to lay there indefinitely, but all to soon the dawn threatened and Watson, whom Holmes had established _could not_ sleep during the night, shook him gently awake. 

"I have to go," he said softly, and Holmes opened his eyes. 

"I know," he said, voice heavy with regret. "until tonight? You will come again." Plan or no plan, Holmes could not bear to have Watson away so long. 

"Yes, I will," he promised. He kissed Holmes once more, trailing his fingers down the length of his spine. 

Holmes caught his wandering hand and brought it to his lips, "Go," he said, "I will see you tonight." 

Watson nodded, taking his leave and Holmes watched until the very last moment, until he was through the window and gone, silent as he slipped over the rooftops and dawn brightened the sky.


	6. The Diogenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: none

Chapter 6: The Diogenes  


  
  


The Diogenes club at Pall Mall was one of the most exclusive and peculiar clubs in all of London. Far from being a place for conversation and socializing, it's members were forbidden to speak to each other at all, and passed the time in what could only be described as ‘companionable solitude’, each busying himself with his own thoughts and hobbies while staunchly ignoring his fellow constituents, who returned the favor with zealous equanimity. Its membership had long boasted to be comprised of some of the most unsocial and misanthropic men to be found in the whole of the city. 

Mycroft Holmes was a founding member. 

Holmes approached the doorman – a dark-haired fellow by the name of Sturgerson – in a rented wheelchair pushed by one of his older boys, Georgie. 

"Good afternoon,” he greeted him, “I'm here to speak to my brother, Mycroft. The lad is with me; he knows the rules. Do be a good fellow and show us to the Stranger's Room." 

Sturgerson nodded and opened the door for them, leading Holmes and the boy to the one area of the Diogenes’ where speaking was permitted; a small but well-appointed sitting room called the Stranger's room, where visitors could be received. Georgie pushed his chair over to a table with a crystal water decanter atop it, and Sturgerson departed with a deep bow. 

The moment the heavy oak door slid shut, something peculiar began to happen. 

The air in the room grew heavy and oppressive, bearing Holmes down as though he were a criminal being pressed beneath a stone weight. It pulled on his very veins and arteries, blood sluggishly struggling to reach his brain. Georgie, seemingly unaffected, looked curiously about the room and Holmes tried to call for him, but all that escaped his lips was a wheezing rasp; the air had turned to damp cloth and he was choking on it. He tried to move next, but his body remained immobile, oppressed heaviness infusing his limbs. 

But Holmes did not recruit unobservant children, and Georgie turned quickly to look at him, a question in his eyes. "Mr. Holmes? Are you alrih' sir?" 

Holmes tried to shake his head and managed a fraction of an inch. Talking proved quite impossible. 

Georgie was moving towards him with concern when the inner door opened with a bang, and Mycroft - moving with far more celerity than Holmes had ever seen him do before – snatched him away. 

"Don't go near him, boy!" Mycroft shouted, spinning Georgie around and placing him behind him before turning to glare at Holmes. "You _bloody_ idiot!" he thundered, opening the door and shoving the lad through with the command of "Stay there, Sturgerson will come for you." He turned back to Holmes, his face hard as granite and white with rage. 

Well, at least someone seemed to know what was happening. Unfortunately, Holmes couldn’t respond, so was obliged to listen to Mycroft yell at him and wait for him to come to the point. 

Mycroft stomped over to the wall and pulled a book off the shelf, opening it to reveal a hollow center filled with bits of dried plants and herbs. He took several and threw them into a copper bowl beside the water decanter, mumbling in a foreign tongue as he set them afire. The weight suddenly lifted from Holmes, and he could move and speak again.

“I never knew you spoke ancient Aramaic.” 

Mycroft ignored that, laying into him instead. “Coming here, thralled!? Have you lost your mind!? Wait- yes you have, _BECAUSE YOU'RE A DAMN THRALL!"_

Holmes usual reaction to Mycroft's anger would be playfulness, but this incident had revealed a good deal, and there was nothing playful about any of it. 

"I would explain, but you would hardly trust my words." He was taking in this revelation in stages, readjusting all he thought he knew of his brother and his life. (It seemed the world had him readjusting his thoughts quite a lot, lately.) 

Were the situation less dire, Holmes might have spared a moment to marvel at his brother’s guile. 

Mycroft knew of the existence of thralls. Knew of them so intimately that he had this room - the only place in the whole of the Diogenes that non-members were allowed - warded against them, for that is unquestionably what had happened. If he knew of thralls, then he also knew of vampires, and his knowledge likely far surpassed Holmes’ own; a fact which would make his task both easier and harder. 

Mycroft glared at him. "You're damn right I won't trust it, but tell me anyway. I know _who_ it is - your "dead" client, Doctor Jackson. What name is he going by these days?" He looked Holmes over quickly. "He tempted you by promising to cure your wounds, did he not?" 

"No, that was _my_ suggestion." 

"Oh, I am certain it was," Mycroft sneered in disgust. " _You_ clearly think it was. For shame, brother. I am disappointed he has controlled you so easily." He lumbered over to the table and poured himself a drink. “Speaking of which, get up. We both know you aren’t injured anymore.” 

Holmes stood obligingly. "I had thought the meeting would require a good deal more explanation on my part and a good deal more disbelief on yours." 

Mycroft ignored that. “How much of his blood have you drank?” 

"If you disbelieve everything I say then what is the point of asking me anything at all?" 

"To see how far gone you are,” he replied, emptying his glass in one swallow and immediately filling it again. 

"Then you needn’t trouble yourself, I will say it plainly: I am very, very far gone, brother. And I have no desire to be recalled." 

Mycroft’s glowering face roiled like a thunder cloud. “Of course not, you’re a thrall.” He turned and spat upon the carpet. “Pathetic. Why did he send you here?" 

"He didn't. But I don't suppose you'll believe that either." 

"Then why _are_ you here?" 

"To warn you, but it seems you may know more of the business than myself. I commend you brother; I never even suspected. How long have you known of the existence of vampires? For myself, it has been a little over a month." 

"I dare not tell you anything," Mycroft said flatly. "Whatever information you possess will pass to him, and if you are here then he knows far too much already. _You_ will tell me where he sleeps; the only way to free you from him now is to kill him." 

"I do not know where he sleeps, but he is the least of your concerns. You are aware, are you not, that the vicar who died had a son who was a vampire?” 

He did not bother with coyness or chicanery, nor did he hold his cards close. Mycroft was both alarmed and angry, and that was a fatal combination. Though his brother was the most indolent of men and abhorred physical exertion of any kind, he was far from harmless, for anything could be moved if enough pressure was applied. Mountains formed when the plates of the earth crashed together, and Mycroft Holmes abandoned his routine when he judged his younger brother to be in need of his assistance. Both were equally impressive in their scope, and terrifying to anyone who might be too close to the epicenter. 

Mycroft could be a very dangerous man when he wished to be; Holmes would have to be careful. 

He nodded gravely. “From the silver cuffs left on the bed. The leather had been carved with binding runes; such spells are used to hold evil creatures. When the police report stated that the bodies recovered from the church yard were drained of blood, we knew it must be a vampire, and likely the same one that killed Nelson Langley a month ago.” His eyes narrowed sharply. “I was uncertain how much you truly knew of the business.” 

“So that is why you deigned to visit me in the hospital yourself,” Holmes mused. “And yet, you trusted me then. Ah- of course. The carriage; much like this room, you had it warded against thralls. Very clever.” 

“The story you gave Lestrade was a plausible one,” Mycroft rumbled, “but knowing the creature for what it was, I could not account for your having survived the encounter. If you were alive, it could only have been through very good luck. And you know I do not believe in luck, brother.” 

Holmes shrugged the comment off. “It was not luck at all; my survival was due entirely to the good doctor’s efforts. It was he who killed both Deighton and Newman, and dispatched the pathetic creature that had once been the vicar’s son.” 

“It was not his own child?” Mycroft asked with a quirk of his heavy brow. 

Holmes shook his head. “No indeed, the doctor knew nothing of its existence.” 

Mycroft gave a derisive snort which Holmes ignored as he continued. “The vicar was attempting to cure the boy via faith; keeping him locked away, chained to a bed and fed a steady stream of homeless indigents. I would have been next, save for the doctor. He killed both vicar and priest, dispatched the boy and the rest you read of in the paper. Killing vampires seems to be something of a hobby of his; he certainly has no love for his own kind.” 

Mycroft remained unmoved. “No vampire has any love for its own kind outside its clan, and precious little within it. They kill each other nearly as often as they kill mortals and it is the only reason the Earth is not overrun with them. Those who live to an advanced age do so through cunning, brute force, and the size of their clans. Even within clans themselves, there is constant competition for status and favor. Whose clan does this “doctor” belong to?” 

“He is not part of any clan,” Holmes assured him. “He never even knew his sire. He learned to survive on his own, and on his own he has been for a very long time. Indeed, he is the proverbial lone wolf, and London is his home. He has killed every vampire who has stepped foot within it for the last fifty years.” 

Mycroft looked mildly surprised, which meant his shock must be great indeed. “Fifty years? Unlikely. The Diogenes would have found his victims long before now. He is surely lying to you; these creatures do little else.” 

“He does not kill when he feeds,” he said, and Mycroft greeted that with all the incredulity Holmes expected him to. “Consider, brother. There is a reason no clans have gained a foothold in London, and it is due to more than your own efforts.” 

“You know nothing of my efforts,” Mycroft snapped. 

“I know more now than I did five minutes ago. Your role in government, the one you created for yourself. I have always known you did more than audit books and dispense wisdom. Nor is this a mere gentleman’s club for misanthropic recluses. You safeguard London’s borders from vampiric threats, and this place is your sanctum sanctorum. That is why the spoken word is forbidden, is it not? What better way to avoid falling victim to a vampire's Order than to disallow speech? How many of the men here are vampire hunters by night?” 

“What is your ‘warning’?” Mycroft demanded, obstinately refusing to tell Holmes anything at all. 

“That you must prepare for war. The sire of the vicar’s son is coming, and he will not be alone. If we do not stand together, I fear London will fall.” He then told his brother the whole of the story, from his first meeting with Watson to his last, omitting only the personal details which would only disquiet his brother further, and which Holmes had no desire to share in any case. 

To his credit, Mycroft listened, his massive body squeezed into one of the oversized chairs, and his face pulled into a craggy frown. 

“Stamford?” he said at last, once Holmes had finished. “You say he claimed to be a friend of Stamford’s? Impossible. The boy had more sense than that.” 

“Why should it be impossible? He befriended me after all. Surely a vampire would not be too far beyond the realm of possibility.” 

But Mycroft was in even less a mood for his brother’s humor than normal. “Because Stamford was Diogenes!” he thundered, slamming his fist into the armrest. “And if he ever saw a vampire within London's borders, he would kill it on sight!"


	7. An Uneasy Truce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: none

Chapter 7: An Uneasy Truce  


  
  


_Diogenes. Stamford._ Holmes felt the foundation of his entire world shudder and he reeled, staggering backwards to his chair, the revelation nearly bringing him to his knees. His bones felt like they were made of water; too weak and insubstantial to hold him and he collapsed into the chair, great noise in his head like a rushing river.

Mycroft watched him keenly but did not intervene, letting Holmes work through it on his own. 

"Did you hire him to keep an eye on me!?" he demanded, glaring up at his brother. "Before, or after we were lovers?" Because of course Mycroft had always known Stamford was more than a fellow lodger, even if they had never formally addressed it. (Of _course_ he did now, obviously.)

"Holmes," Mycroft said, and for once his voice was something approaching gentle. "You misunderstand. I did _not_ send him to spy on you. Your meeting was coincidental, and the feelings that developed between you genuine.”

But Holmes was not listening. For once in his life, he was not listening to his older brother. _Stamford._ His sweet, gentle boy. Working for the Diogenes, for _Mycroft_...and Holmes had never known.

“How could I not know?” he whispered. He, who knew so much, who could read a man’s history from the callouses on his hands, the mud on his shoes. How could he not know something so profound about his closest of companions? About his very lover?It made no sense, and yet Mycroft told the truth, that was evident enough.

“He did not wish you to know,” Mycroft rumbled. “He never meant for you to become ensnared in the business. And he knew you would, if you discovered it. He knew your nature well enough to know you could do nothing else.”

“But-” but surely, he would have known. There would have been signs, clues. All men had secrets, and all men had tells. “-it cannot...I would have known he kept a secret from me at least...”

“Do not be so certain.”

At Mycroft’s tone he turned, setting his shock aside to focus wholly upon his brother. “What else have you been hiding?”

Mycroft held a glass out to him. “You should have a drink,” he advised, and the strangeness of Mycroft of all people encouraging him to partake any sort of medicament – even on as mundane as alcohol – made him reach for the glass.

Mycroft sighed and sat, nursing his own glass between his large hands. “No doubt upon learning of the existence of vampires your first action was to engage in an extensive study of the occult,” he began, and Holmes nodded wordlessly. “I needn’t tell you then that the vast majority of the information available to the public on the topic is utter rubbish. Useless superstition and supposition; the deluded ramblings of bromidic men and swindlers who peddle their fancies as truth.”

Holmes nodded again.

“But even the damnedest of lies have a foundation of truth, however deep one must dig to find it. Tell me brother, in your studies, what did you learn of psychics and the art of mentalism?”

“Nothing conclusive,” he replied, and knew now where the conversation was headed, the point Mycroft was driving at. “But the doctor certainly possesses such abilities, thus their reality is beyond question.”

“Then you know what I am going to say next.”

“And you know how I shall respond,” Holmes replied, and Mycroft nodded gravely.

“If there were questions Stamford did not wish you to ask, things he did not wish you to know, he had ways of making certain you did not ask them, and did not know them.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, a thin layer of hoarfrost coating the words.

Mycroft sighed again. “Because he thought it best for you not to know, and I agreed with him.”

Holmes gave a mirthless smirk, something like pain twisting in his chest. His heart hurt. “And you? Do you have similar mental abilities?”

“No, though I have been trained to withstand thrall, as have all the Diogenes members. But those gifted with psychic acumen are the most adept at it, and Stamford was one of our best. He was a highly intelligent boy, and a talented psychic. Finding one at all is difficult enough, finding one of his calibre is a rare boon indeed. His loss was a great blow to the Diogenes.”

Holmes clutched his hand hard around his glass and looked away, but Mycroft would not be routed so easily. “He resigned from the order shortly after he met you; even before you took rooms together at Baker Street. He knew he could not serve two masters, both us and you. He chose you; take comfort at least in that.”

“Comfort?" Holmes mocked, his mouth warping around the word. "That I was hoodwinked and lied to by the two men I trusted above all others?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed sharply. “I have never lied to you, brother. There are many things we do not discuss between ourselves. You do not ask me about my work, and I do not ask after your personal affairs. I never requested information about Stamford and you never divulged it. Furthermore, it was his expressed wish that he have no further contact with the Diogenes after he left, and I honored it. Thus, what he did and how much he told you of himself was his decision alone. It was not my place to share his secrets any more than it was his place to share mine...or yours.”

“You sound uncommonly like you are making excuses.”

“Use your head, Sherlock,” he snapped, sounding much as he had when they were children. “Set aside your feelings, look at the situation logically and you will see that all Stamford did, he did for your welfare.”

He ground his teeth together. “He could have trusted me,” he whispered.

“With the truth, certainly, but not with your life. He _knew_ you, brother. You make your days dangerous enough without involving yourself in the world of the supernatural. And you would have, had you known. Indeed, barely a month has passed and yet here you are; a vampire’s thrall already. How could you begrudge him either his secrecy or the lengths he went to in order to secure it? He was _protecting_ you. Nor will I fault him for it; it is far more Herculean a task than fighting vampires.”

A ghost of a smile touched Holmes’ lips, but he was not yet ready to forgive his brother. How he wanted Watson...the world would make sense again once Watson was by his side...but Mycroft was right at least, that now was not the time for sentiment.

“Be that as it may, I know now, and have involved myself much as you feared. The question before you now is will you stand beside me, or in my way?”

Mycroft snorted into his drink. “That depends on what you plan to achieve.”

“As I said, London is shadowed by evil. The plan put into place by this mysterious sire proves both their cunning and patience; it is not an adversary I wish to face alone. But you were the only man I could turn to who might not have thought me completely mad."

"You _are_ mad," Mycroft noted, "but you are not wrong that darkness threatens this city. Our scouts have reported increased nocturnal activity in the smaller towns outside London, and in the larger cities, things are beginning to happen.”

“What sort of things?” Holmes asked, intrigued despite himself.

Mycroft lit a cigar, sat back with it held between his fat fingers. “Vampires influence the minds of the humans they are in proximity to. The most obvious examples are those consciously done; thralling, Orders and other such instances of deliberate persuasion. But there are unintentional effects as well. Sudden mass hysteria, or an abrupt rash of violence. Look anywhere people’s passions have been suddenly and inexplicably stirred to the boiling point, one will usually find a vampire has made its lair nearby. Not everyone is susceptible to such compulsions, but among the weak-minded, a vampire's influence is unmistakable. We have reports of such violence escalating in several cities this past week; it is usually a sign that a vampire galère is on the move.”

“They are readying their clan for war,” Holmes surmised, then louder, “The vampire kept in Saint Cyprian’s clergy house was insane; that might go a way to explaining the epidemic of madness that suddenly gripped the church.” Montressor, Langley, the Vicar...all of them feeling the subtle corrupting influence of a vampire driven mad with hunger. “It is possible,” Mycroft agreed. “All the more reason it was foolish of you to allow yourself to be thralled.” He took a long pull from his cigar, regarding Holmes with a sharp and calculating gaze. “You realize the most logical explanation is that this ‘doctor’ has attached himself to you in order to infiltrate the Diogenes from within, to destroy us and thus leave London open to attack from the rest of his clan.”

“He has been here fifty years,” Holmes reminded him, “long before either of us were born. If he wished to take London, it would have been done before now.”

“I know what he has told you, but the word of a vampire is worth less than nothing. They lie as easily as they kill.”

“Then we are at an impasse.”

“However,” Mycroft continued, “While the face of the Diogenes as a gentlemen’s club was my idea, it has existed as a slayer’s coven for time immemorial, and it has kept careful records of all vampiric activity in London and its surrounding cities for well over a century. I will consult these records today and confirm the doctor’s claims. If it is true that he has kept the city free of their influence for the past fifty years, it will be noted. If proven right, I will need to speak with him. We shall need to formulate a plan."

"And would this plan involve driving a stake through his heart? I know you think me stripped of my reason and his death the only recourse, though I was told the effects of the thrall would fade within a week or two."

Mycroft paused. "That is true enough, as long as you do not drink any more of his blood in the meantime. I do not currently plan to kill him, because I think he is more useful alive...for the moment."

"He certainly is. As for the crest with two snakes, do you know of it?"

He let out a ponderous breath, grey smoke filling the air between them. "No, I have not heard of it."

"Then my next stop will be to consult the books of heraldry at parliament."

His brother frowned. "If this creature already knows about you and your association with the doctor, you are in danger. I would have you stay here where it is safe."

"I doubt they will be looking for me at parliament in any case."

Mycroft's voice deepened as his concern grew. "You should be wary. This is not one of your trifling mysteries, Sherlock. It is an ancient evil from before the dawn of civilization; countless men have lost their lives to it. We have safe rooms here, and wards they cannot cross. Now we know they are coming, we shall stand watch at night. You will find no safer place in London than here. No one could bother you, not even that doctor." 

Holmes dismissed all of that. "As I am thralled, I needn't tell you I have no desire to not be seen by 'that doctor', and he feels the same. He _will_ try to contact me here, and that will undoubtedly cause an incident. If you insist on my being here then let me speak to him first, that he will know to keep his distance."

"What?" Mycroft said, blinking. "Say that again... you're his thrall, his tool. He doesn't think of you as anything other than a puppet to be used and discarded at his leisure."

"If that is true, he is a remarkably gifted actor."

Mycroft shook his head. "He must be. These creatures _use_ humans, we are nothing but food to them, and one does love the pig that is turned into bacon."

"You know I can do nothing but disagree. I _will_ need to speak with him."

"I can arrange a meeting," Mycroft said with an imperious wave of his hand. "As you know, no one can come past the foyer at night unless vetted, and every room beyond it has been warded against evil. He can meet you there."

Holmes didn't trust his brother an inch. "Not here. I know you have what you believe to be my best interests at heart, and I know how you feel about him. Bear me no ill will when I tell you I do not trust you in this. A vampire in the foyer of the Diogenes is a heart waiting for a silver bullet."

Mycroft glowered. "And even that is a fate better than he deserves for doing this to you," he growled. "He would live; you shall not, if you cannot free yourself of his influence. He will drain you dry, and you will think it glorious to serve as his dinner."

"If there can be no truce then I will not stay here."

"I can only promise amnesty for one meeting."

"The meeting will not take place here. I am sorry brother, I will not risk it. I know what you would do for my sake; breaking your word is the least of it."

Mycroft clenched his jaw, cigar smashing between his teeth. " _My_ safety cannot be guaranteed in any other venue. If he can be trusted to come here to speak with you, then I promise he will leave unharmed."

He looked at Mycroft for a long moment. "It will be his decision; I fully plan on telling him how little I trust your word in this. If he does come, consider what that says of him. Consider too that Stamford - one of your own - was his friend. All he has done, from taking my council to saving my life was done before the thrall."

The problem was, this thing was bigger than either himself or Watson. Or Mycroft, for that matter. They needed an alliance, and in order for that to happen _someone_ would have to show good faith. Oh, but if Watson came to harm...Holmes honestly could not say how he would react. If Watson died and the thrall died with him, how would he feel? He would certainly not be happy with his brother; Watson had been an ally even before the thrall. But how much would he truly care? How much of these feelings were mere illusion? All of it, if what he has been told was truth.

"I am trusting _you_ , brother, even though I cannot. He knows you are here, doesn't he? I should hold you here, and when he fails to come it would prove you are nothing to him. The danger here is too great to risk himself for a single thrall and he knows it. Instead, I am telling you to go - tell him to visit us here tonight. If neither of you shows by midnight, I shall assume the worst, and I _will_ find him."

And that was that; Mycroft had delivered his ultimatum and would not be moved. No one could move Mycroft once he had planted himself; not even Holmes.

"Did Stamford tell you of his dreams in the months leading up to his death?" Holmes asked softly.

Mycroft tipped his chin up. "No."

"Fire," Holmes said simply. "He dreamed of fire. I told him it was nothing, though he would awake some nights in a cold sweat. You say he was psychic. If that is true, then-” His eyes burned, because his infatuation with Watson has not completely erased his guilt, though it has made it far more bearable. "-then he _knew_. He knew what his dreams meant and he followed me anyway, even to his own death. He followed me and said nothing of his fear."

Holmes looked up at his brother and held his eyes. "Do not make me responsible for the death of yet another friend, brother." Then he left.

Mycroft's eyes followed Holmes as he left the room, anger just held in check, tempered by the sadness in Holmes' words. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always questions, comments and theories are much appreciated. Also it's summer break in the southern hemisphere and I will have a rambunctious 6 year old underfoot for the next month and a half. Updates will probably be slow. And for anyone wondering where the heck the actual werewolves of London are...they're coming. It's a long story.


End file.
